


The Great British Wank-Off

by p1013



Series: Kinkuary 2021 [21]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Come Eating, Comeplay, Contests, Crack Treated Seriously, Draco Malfoy knows what he's doing, Facials, Harry Potter in Denial, Hogwarts Eighth Year, M/M, Masturbation, Masturbation in Shower, Mutual Masturbation, Outdoor Sex, POV Harry Potter, Ron Weasley is a Good Friend, group masturbation, if slightly confused, under-negotiated sexual encounter
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-22
Updated: 2021-02-22
Packaged: 2021-03-14 11:14:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,315
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29666421
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/p1013/pseuds/p1013
Summary: "It's not a kinky thing!" Harry pushes his glasses up to rub at the bridge of his nose. "Look, Malfoy beat me that time, and then he kept rubbing it in my face—""Phrasing, mate.""Shut up. Anyway, he kept gloating about it, so I challenged him to a rematch. That's all that was."Ron stares at Harry like he's grown another head and it's suddenly become visible. "So, you and Malfoy, you were having some kind of… masturbation marathon. A competitive cocking. A battle of the bulge.""I'm going to murder you."
Relationships: Draco Malfoy/Harry Potter
Series: Kinkuary 2021 [21]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2140512
Comments: 44
Kudos: 330
Collections: HP Kinkuary 2021





	The Great British Wank-Off

**Author's Note:**

> Day 22 - Facials

Harry knew this was a bad idea two hours ago when Dean brought out a bottle of bootleg Firewhisky and started passing it around. Now, he finds he doesn't care nearly as much.

"Alright, lads," Dean says with a slurred grin, "here're the rules. Last man standing wins."

"Goyle's lying down, though," Ron offers helpfully.

Looking up from his book, Goyle frowns at the gathered group of drunken eighth year boys. "I don't know what gave you the impression I was participating."

"You _were_ drinking."

"Water," Goyle says before flipping another page in his book. "And I'm ignoring you now."

With a flick of his wand, he pulls the curtains around his bed shut, and a moment later there's a familiar pop as he casts _Muffliato_.

"Spoilsport." Malfoy reaches for the nearly empty bottle of whisky and takes a healthy drink. Grimacing as he swallows, he offers it to Seamus, who waves it away. After Malfoy turns and holds the bottle out to Blaise, Seamus pulls his own (less empty) bottle from where he'd stashed it under a bed earlier.

"I believe that means Greg's lost," Blaise offers helpfully as he takes the bottle from Malfoy. "Longbottom, you're in, yes?"

Neville stretches, his shirt riding up to reveal the toned expanse of his stomach. Blaise's eyes drift down to the strip of pale skin and the line of darker hair that bisects it before he drags them, clearly unwillingly, back to Neville's face.

All of the eighth year boys have made that final butterfly-esque transformation into men, but out of all of them, Neville's changed the most. The last of his baby fat was melting away when Voldemort fell, and the summer heat seems to have finished the rest. His hours spent in the greenhouses this last year, pulling weeds and lugging about heavy bags of soil and fertilizer, hasn't hurt.

Harry's a bit appalled that he thinks Neville might be the fittest Gryffindor of the lot of them.

He doesn't want to think about the other houses, and who might be the best looking out of them.

"Last man standing," Dean says again, before pulling Seamus up from the floor. They press too close together, and Ron whistles.

"Get a room, you two," he offers before stumbling himself to standing. 

Seamus grins at Ron, then kisses Dean with what is probably too much tongue. It doesn't stop Dean from putting his hands on either side of Seamus's head to bring him closer.

"Alright, alright," Neville says. "You've made your point already. We're up."

"Not yet, you're not," Blaise leers. Neville rolls his eyes, but Harry's not too drunk to miss the flush rising in Neville's cheeks.

Malfoy puts his hand on his waistband. "What's the dress code, Thomas?"

Glancing from Malfoy to Seamus, Dean raises an eyebrow. "Trousers off?"

"What about pants?" Harry keeps his eyes on Dean, doesn't let his gaze drift where it wants to go.

"Dealer's choice, Hazza. Personally, I prefer a bit of a tease."

Harry steps out of his trousers and throws them in the direction of his bed. "You'd think with the goal of this game, you wouldn't want to do what you prefer."

Dean laughs. "And they say Ron's the smart one."

"That's 'cause I am." Ron stands proudly in his Chudley Cannons' boxer shorts, hands on his hips and grinning. "And you're all going down."

"It's not that kind of party game, Weasley," Malfoy says.

Harry laughs. Malfoy's acerbic wit startles Harry into laughter more often than not these days. As his eyes finally settle on Malfoy, though, the sound dies in his throat.

Where Neville is all thick torso and strong arms, Malfoy is whipcord-lean. He's got a runner's build, everything about his body tuned like a well-maintained machine. His arms aren't thick, but as he pulls his shirt over his head, they ripple with strength. So does his stomach, a low, slow wave of clenching muscle and smooth skin as he straightens. Unlike Harry, Malfoy folds his shirt carefully, and Harry quickly becomes fascinated by the elegant motion of his fingers on the white fabric.

This is why Harry doesn't let himself do these things.

These things being childish games suggested by drunk, horny boys to other drunk, horny boys.

"So, do we just… start?" Blaise asks, his hand resting precariously close to the slit in his briefs. As Harry watches, Blaise settles his fingers overtop of his prick, teasing.

"We should probably time it. Wouldn't be fair otherwise." Ron looks around for his wand. "I'll cast a _Tempus_."

Neville finds his wand first and casts it for Ron. The counter floats in the middle of the loose circle they've made in their dormitory, and as they edge closer to it, they each get a hand around their cocks and start.

At first, it's awkward as shit. Harry's too focused on the sounds of everyone else's hands on their pricks. Some of them have cast _Lubrico_ , so there's the slick-slide slap of lube added to the mix. Others, like Harry, haven't, and though he likes it a bit rough, he's not sure he wants the others to know that about himself.

But Harry's eighteen, not-entirely-straight, and currently surrounded by other men with their hands around hard cocks. He can't help but start to get into it a bit.

Dean and Seamus aren't even trying to win. They keep giving each other meaningful glances, licking their lips, and leaving their mouths wide open as they breathe. Harry expects they would've been all over each other if there hadn't been an audience. Even that vague hope is beginning to fade the longer Dean stares at Seamus like he's something edible, and Seamus keeps leaning closer and closer towards Dean.

Blaise is just as bad. He hasn't looked away from Neville since they started, though Neville is pointedly looking in the opposite direction . But judging by the way his stomach keeps clenching, Neville knows that Blaise is watching.

Ron, who clearly wants to win this thing, has his eyes shut and has picked a pace like a marathon runner's. It's steady, even, unflinching. If Harry weren't praying to somehow wipe the image of Ron's hand on his prick from his mind without inducing brain damage, he'd be impressed.

Harry does not look at Malfoy.

If Harry looks at Malfoy, Harry is going to be done embarrassingly quick.

Look, he knows it's not an appropriate crush to have. Malfoy literally broke his nose a few years ago, and it's still got a bend in it he can feel when he runs his fingers over the bridge. Malfoy also had literal prisoners in his basement a year ago, even if they hadn't precisely been _his_ prisoners. Sure, he'd been pardoned, partially because of Harry's testimony, and he'd been on his best behavior over the last year. The war had shaken some of the brat out of him, too, so he's not really that bad. Just a bit sarcastic, a bit sharp with his wit, which, if Harry's going to be honest, he kind of likes. Malfoy had taken up running and was out on the Quidditch pitch most weekends, working on his skills as a Seeker, and Harry had seen him in the showers that one time, his towel low on his hips, two dimples right above the globes of his arse, water still dripping down the long, even line of his spine…

Harry clenches his teeth and yanks his thoughts away from that. There's a warning heat pooling in his gut, a navel-deep pull not unlike Apparition but infinitely more pleasant, and while he doesn't really _want_ to be the last of them to come, he doesn't want to be the first.

Seamus beats Harry to it, though. He curses quietly, and Dean chuckles low and dark at the sound.

"Well done, Finnegan," Dean says, and Harry gets the feeling that Seamus's choked off breath isn't from embarrassment. Especially when Dean comes a minute later and the two of them stumble off towards the bathroom, laughing.

Now that he doesn't have to worry about making a fool of himself, Harry's less cautious, less guarded.

He looks at Malfoy.

It's an immediate mistake, because unlike Blaise or Dean or Seamus, Malfoy is looking directly at Harry. Not at his hand on his prick, either, but on Harry's face. When Harry looks at Malfoy, their eyes lock, and Harry feels that hook in his gut _pull_.

Which is how he comes while looking straight into Malfoy's eyes, nearly spilling Malfoy's name from his lips as come spills from his prick.

He _knew_ this was a bad idea.

* * *

It turns into a thing. Not a _big_ thing, not a thing that anyone else would notice, but Harry's keyed up afterwards, and Malfoy's always been able to get his goat. So when Malfoy walks a bit too close to Harry as they pass each other in the hallway to the dormitory, or Malfoy makes sure his leg brushes against Harry's during Potions, or he drops something and bends over at the waist, Harry _knows_.

Malfoy's up to something.

They're leaving the Great Hall after dinner one night, everyone else filtering out before them, and Malfoy bumps into Harry's back as they pass through the doors.

"Sorry, Potter," he says, his posh voice low and smooth. "I didn't see you there."

"Okay, that's enough of that. C'mere." Harry grabs Malfoy's robes in his fist, then pulls him away from the main hallway and into a corridor to the grounds. Slamming Malfoy against the wall, Harry's arm braced across his chest, he asks, "What're you trying to prove, Malfoy?"

Grey eyes wide, Malfoy throws his hands up in mock surrender. "I've no idea what you're talking about, Potter. If I'd known knocking into you would provoke such a response, I would have made sure to avoid it more studiously."

"Shut your damn mouth, Malfoy. You and I both know you're up to something."

"I assure you, I'm not _up_ to anything at all." He grins, and that heat curls low and deep in Harry's stomach again.

"It's that damned game, isn't it? You think you're better than me."

Malfoy's eyebrow arches. "If you think that game is the only thing I'm better at than you, I do believe you need to pay closer attention."

"It didn't mean anything."

"Who said it did?" Malfoy smirks again. "I certainly never."

"You… I…" Harry growls, trying to get this conversation back under his control.

"If you're about to say something like 'it's never happened before' or 'my stamina is usually much better than that,' let me save you your breath. We're eighteen, Potter. A hair trigger is nothing to be ashamed about."

"I'm not ashamed."

"Of course not."

"I can last longer than that."

Malfoy's laugh punches out of him. "Is that what this is all about? Because you _lost_?"

"I didn't lose," he grits out.

"You lost to _me_." Malfoy's eyes dart from Harry's to his mouth, then back again. Almost unconsciously, Malfoy licks his lips. "Are you looking for a rematch, Potter?"

"Am I…?"

"Best two out of three," Malfoy says as the pressure of Harry's arm across his chest lessens. "And I won't count the first time against you. Clean slate, as it were."

Harry takes a step back, his heart pounding. "A rematch."

"Exactly."

Harry's cock is half-hard in his trousers. His palms are sweating.

This is a _terrible_ idea.

"You're on."

* * *

Harry finishes rinsing the last of the soap from his body, then listens carefully. It's late, and he doesn't hear anyone else getting ready to turn in for the night, so with a wandless _Muffliato_ , he grabs a bit more soap, and then grabs his cock.

Sighing, he leans his arm against the shower wall, lets the water cascade over his back, and works his prick nice and slow, just how he likes it. His toes curl, and his eyes fall shut as he starts picturing someone on their knees before him, their smart mouth open and red around his prick as he fucks their face, when there's a pointed cough behind him.

Groaning—and not the good kind—Harry stands and looks over his shoulder.

Malfoy's holding the shower curtain open, his eyebrow raised (as if it ever isn't) and a smug grin on his face. "Am I interrupting?"

"Yes. What do you want?"

"I believe," Malfoy says before pulling the curtain farther open, "that we've got a competition ongoing."

"Not right now!"

Malfoy gives a pointed look to Harry's prick, which hasn't caught up with the program and is still hard and expectant. "I'd say otherwise."

"It doesn't… You weren't here when I started. It can't count."

"Oh, I assure you I was here."

Harry, always blind without his glasses, squints at Malfoy and realizes that his hair is wet, and what Harry thought was a nightshirt is actually a towel draped over Malfoy's shoulders, another wrapped around his waist. As Harry watches, the front of it tents, just a little.

"Ah." Harry shifts his weight, suddenly uncomfortably warm. "What're you suggesting, Malfoy?"

"Budge over," he says, already pulling his towels away before Harry can protest. "Let's see what you've got, Potter."

"You've already seen it."

"Not what I meant, Potter."

The curtain slides shut with a cheerful jangle, and Harry suddenly realizes that there's not nearly enough space in the cubicle for both him and Draco. They're both pressed against opposite walls, the water falling between them and splashing their chests. It makes the ice-cold tile against his back a bit more bearable, but the temperature difference is distracting.

As is Malfoy's proximity.

"Shall I cast the _Tempus_ , or…" Malfoy asks, his hair falling wetly across his forehead.

Harry wants to brush it away, so he casts the spell instead. The numbers float before them, and when the corner of Malfoy's mouth twitches into a tempting half-smile, Harry starts it running.

It's a good thing they're both right handed, or they'd be liable to bump their arms together. As it is, they have to be careful their knuckles don't brush on the end of their upstrokes. It forces Harry to watch Malfoy's hand on his prick, so that Harry can time his own strokes to avoid Malfoy's.

The longer he stares at Malfoy's cock, though, the more Harry can't look away. He knows he should. This whole fiasco is probably skirting the edges of sexual harassment or something. But as Malfoy's elegant fingers move easily up the thick shaft to twist at the end with brutal efficiency, Harry's eyes refuse to move.

It's fucking hot, and not just because of the water and the steam. Malfoy's got a gorgeous cock, and he's got gorgeous hands, and the combination is brutal. It's an assault against Harry's desire to win, to outlast Malfoy in this game of perverted chicken they're playing at. There's a pearlescent tear of precome at the tip of Malfoy's cock, and when he swipes it away with his thumb, Harry moans.

"Like to watch, Potter?"

The words startle a gasp from Harry's throat, but before he can reply, Malfoy's speaking again.

"I know you do. Don't think I didn't see you looking at everyone else's pricks that night. You couldn't help yourself. Didn't even skip Weasley's. But it was mine,"—he gives his cock a pointed squeeze that Harry swears he can feel even though Malfoy's hand is nowhere near him—"that did it best for you. This thick, hard prick and my hands stroking it. Did you wish they were yours, Potter? That you were the one touching me, instead of myself?"

"That's not—" Harry gasps, but it's too late. His orgasm slams through him, and as he bows into it, he falls forward into the scalding water and nearly brushes his hand against Malfoy's.

"That's," Malfoy pants, his head thrown back against the shower wall, teeth gritted and bared, "one for me."

And then he's coming, too. Hot, heavy spurts that spatter across the tile and slide down to the floor where they mix with the water and with Harry's semen, until it's all washed away.

"That's cheating," Harry finally manages, though he's so weak and limp with satisfaction, he thinks he'll be lucky if Malfoy can make the words out.

Malfoy groans and pushes off the wall. Harry notices Malfoy's weak-kneed stumble with something akin to glee. "I don't remember there being rules when we agreed to this."

"Talking is cheating."

"Too bad, Potter. I guess you'll just have to be better prepared next time."

Harry glares at him, but all Malfoy does is a small wave with just the tips of his fingers before he steps out of the shower stall, whistling to himself as he leaves.

* * *

Harry gets his opportunity for payback when he's returning from a late night Astronomy lesson. It's ice cold outside, even though term is coming to a close, and he's desperate to get out of his heavy cloak and under his heavier blankets.

The dorm is quiet and dark. Harry briefly considers casting a _Lumos_ to see by, but there's enough light coming in from the window that he won't bang into anyone else's bed on the way to his own. He still does his best to be quiet, not wanting to wake anyone up at this ungodly hour.

Which is, of course, when he hears the moan.

It's not an entirely unusual sound. They're all young and virile, and Harry doesn't hold it against whoever's cracking one off while the rest of the room is asleep. Of course, he should've been a bit more careful with his privacy charms, but Harry figures they must've been in a bit of a rush.

Harry's going to let it go—no harm, no foul—until he hears another moan and is able to track where it's coming from.

Malfoy's bed.

Harry freezes as excitement races through him. Hair standing on end, he throws his cloak onto his trunk, then sneaks over to Malfoy's bed. This close, he can hear the distinct sounds of hands on flesh, the shift of a body against sheets, and with a clear sense of victory, Harry slips his hand into the crack of Malfoy's curtains and pulls them aside.

Malfoy startles, but as soon as he sees it's Harry, he curses and throws his head back onto his pillow.

"The fuck do you want, Potter?"

Harry puts his knee onto Malfoy's mattress, then lifts himself up and onto the bed. Shutting the curtain behind him, he casts a more robust privacy charm, then starts undoing his belt. "I think it's time for round two, Malfoy."

Mouth open, eyes dark, Malfoy stares at Harry's hands before seemingly waking up out of a stupor. "What? Now? I hardly see how that's sporting."

"I startled you," Harry offers as his trousers gape open. "I can't imagine that you wouldn't have to start over after that."

Malfoy's prick, still hard and shining with lube, gives a contradictory twitch.

"And," Harry says before pulling his half-hard cock from his pants, "it's fair play after you interrupted me in the shower."

Scowling, Malfoy settles and puts his hand back on himself. "Fine. Cast the bloody charm."

The _Tempus_ glows faintly. It draws out the planes of Malfoy's toned body, and Harry has to admit it's enticing. The subtle shift of light and shadow, the way Harry can see the careful tensing and relaxing of Malfoy's stomach as he runs his hand over his slick skin. Malfoy spreads his legs a bit before reaching down to fondle his balls, and Harry shivers at the sight.

This dumb competition is going to be over pretty fucking soon if Harry doesn't think of something else. Malfoy's licking his lips, and judging by the way he keeps opening his mouth and closing it, he's probably thinking of other filthy things to say. Filthy things like what he talked about in the shower, when Harry came so hard, he saw stars.

There's no bloody way that's going to happen again.

Digging deep for his Gryffindor courage, Harry sits up on his knees and, in a rush, throws one of his legs over Malfoy's thighs. Straddling Malfoy isn't comfortable—Harry's trousers are tight around his thighs and his belt buckle is cold against his skin—but the shocked curse that tumbles from Malfoy's mouth is well worth the discomfort.

"What're you doing, Potter?" Malfoy asks, his voice rough.

Harry runs his fingers over the head of his prick, pulls his foreskin back, then repeats the motion. It's a bit too much stimulation, staying that focused on his cockhead, but Malfoy can't look away. His hand speeds up on his own prick, and Harry bites the inside of his cheek to stop himself from blowing his load at the site.

After another stroke, Harry says, "Cheating," and lowers his weight onto Malfoy's thighs. They're close enough to touch now, the slightest shift of either of their bodies enough to bring their fingers into contact, and needing to win (needing to touch Malfoy), Harry does it.

It's the smallest bit of a caress. Knuckles against knuckles. Nothing soft or gentle about it, just bones clacking into bones. But it makes Malfoy curse again before his eyes slam shut and his back arches, and he nearly sends Harry tumbling onto the mattress as he comes.

"Ah, fuck," he says quietly as stripes of white spatter his stomach. "Ah, fuck."

Harry speeds up his strokes. He knows he doesn't have to come now. He's won. The point is his. But as he watches Malfoy's eyes open slowly, as if he's barely able to find the energy to do so, and Malfoy's cock drools more come onto his skin, Harry can't hold it back.

If he's to be honest, he doesn't want to.

It takes a Herculean effort to keep his eyes open as he comes, but there's no way he's going to miss this. His spunk falls onto Malfoy's hand, Malfoy's cock. It mixes with Malfoy's own on his stomach before pooling in his belly button.

It should be disgusting.

But as Malfoy pulls his sticky hand away to smear it through the mess on his belly, Harry thinks it might be the hottest thing he's ever seen in his life.

"Point to you, Potter," Malfoy says as he examines the mess on his fingers. He arches his damned eyebrow and draws his hand closer to his mouth, lips parted and pink tongue visible.

Harry's out of the bed and stumbling to his own before he can see if Malfoy actually licks it clean.

* * *

"So, you and Malfoy, huh?" Ron asks at breakfast a few days later.

Harry nearly chokes on his bacon. "What?"

Ron points at Harry with his fork, then down the table at Malfoy, then back to Harry. "The two of you. You're a… thing? Now?"

"No!" When heads turn his way, Harry lowers his voice. "No. It's not like that at all."

"It's okay, mate. He's still a bit of a prat, but he's not as bad as he was in sixth year. Honestly, I'm surprised it took you two this long, the way you've always been about him." Ron reaches across the table to put his hand over top of Harry's and squeeze it comfortingly. "I accept you and your sexuality, Harry, even if your taste is terrible."

Wrenching his hand away, Harry nearly knocks over his tea. "You've gone mental."

"I haven't!" Ron leans forward again, his voice quiet. "I heard the two of you the other night, in the dorm. It's not a big deal, honestly. Dean and Seamus have been at it for months now, and it's never bothered me none."

"We're not together," Harry hisses. "It's just… You remember that dumb game we played when we were drinking about a month back?"

Ron looks smug. "You mean the game I won?"

"Whatever. It's just… It's like that."

"Your kink is not my kink, and that's o—"

"It's not a kinky thing!" Harry pushes his glasses up to rub at the bridge of his nose. "Look, Malfoy beat me that time, and then he kept rubbing it in my face—"

"Phrasing, mate."

"Shut up. Anyway, he kept gloating about it, so I challenged him to a rematch. That's all that was."

Ron stares at Harry like he's grown another head and it's suddenly become visible. "So, you and Malfoy, you were having some kind of… masturbation marathon. A competitive cocking. A battle of the bulge."

"I'm going to murder you."

Ron laughs. "Look, mate. Whatever works for you, I guess. At least you got it out of your system."

When Harry flushes, Ron squints. "It _was_ just the one time, yeah?"

Harry mumbles.

"What was that?"

"Best two out of three."

"Oh, you've gotta be fucking with me." Ron's eyes are wide, his eyebrows raised so high they disappear into his fringe. "So you're doing it two more times, then."

"One more."

"But you just said it was… Oh, mate!"

"What?"

"You can't just get off with a bloke and not tell me! I thought I was your best friend!"

Harry groans. "I wasn't getting off with him."

"That's just semantics. Where the hell is Hermione? She's got to hear about this."

"No!" Harry nearly leaps across the table as he grabs Ron's hand. It doesn't do much to prevent the rest of the table looking at them, but as Harry keeps his death grip on Ron and doesn't say anything else, other people's interest fades. "No, you can't tell her."

"If you're worried she's going to care that you're into men…"

"No, no, that's not it. I just… I don't want it getting out, okay? It's stupid."

"I mean, I'd just ask him out at this point, but—"

"Ron," Harry groans. "Please. Just keep it between us, okay?"

"Alright, Harry. But you owe me."

Harry squeezes Ron's hand as relief washes over him. "Anything."

"Whatever you do, I do _not_ want to hear one word about Malfoy's dick."

It's an easy promise to make.

* * *

Harry isn't quite sure how to explain it, but he feels an itch beneath his skin that he can't scratch. He goes to classes, attends his Advanced Defense training, wanders the grounds, but nothing seems to ease the tension thrumming under his skin. It flares whenever he sees Malfoy, though he seems to be avoiding Harry lately. Ever since he sat across Malfoy's thighs and… well, Harry can't fault the man for avoiding him after that. Competition aside, it was a bit… much. Shame and a sickly wanting twist in Harry's gut when he remembers that night. He can't figure out if he's disgusted with himself or if he just wants to do it again.

He needs something to take his mind off of the memories. So when the weekend finally rolls around, Harry forgoes the Hogsmeade visit and chooses to head out to the Quidditch pitch to run laps.

It's been awhile since he's lost himself to the simple motion of running. He's not a huge fan of it, something about his flight from Snatchers and Voldemort having put him off it, but when he needs to empty his mind, there's nothing better. He puts on a grey hoodie and matching joggers, tightens the laces on his trainers, and gets ready to lose himself in the feel of his feet on the ground and his leg muscles slowly burning.

It works for the first half-hour. He's got a good sweat going, and he's unzipped his hoodie to let the early spring air cool him down a bit. It flaps around his sides, the only sound other than the rhythmic slap of his feet on the ground. But as he draws closer to the entrance to the locker rooms built into the Quidditch stands, Harry's easy pace falters.

Malfoy, also dressed in exercise clothes, is leaning against the stands, arms crossed as he watches Harry draw nearer. Like a comet caught by a star, Harry slows, then stops in front of Malfoy, caught by his gravity.

"Malfoy," he pants out.

"Potter."

Brushing his sweat-dampened hair back, Harry asks, "What're you doing here?"

"I didn't realize I needed your permission for a run."

"You don't… I was just…" Harry sighs. "You want to join me?"

Malfoy's surprise is only there for a moment before he nods. "Why not? As long as you're sure you can keep up. We both know how your stamina can be."

"Yours, too," Harry says, flushing. "I promise I'll go easy on you."

He takes off running, and laughs when Malfoy's curse rings out.

It takes him a moment to catch up to Harry, who's already warm and loose from running for awhile. But he's a bit tired from it, and Malfoy's fresh and keeps pace easily, trailing just behind Harry. They fall into an odd synchronicity, their footfalls beating out a staccato rhythm that lulls Harry back into the blank, empty space that running brings him. He never figured he'd be able to keep that quiet state of mind with someone else, but it's easy with Malfoy.

They run together for another half hour before Harry's legs can't keep going. He slows down, panting, then folds over to place his hands on his knees.

"Don't stop on my account," he says, waving at Malfoy. "I'm going to stretch a bit and then hit the showers."

"I don't mind stopping." Malfoy's feet come into Harry's view, and when he looks up, Malfoy's eyes are dark and considering. "You'll want to walk for a bit, though. Cool down."

"Probably." Harry stretches, then shakes his legs out. "Where to, then?"

Malfoy's eyes trail around the circuit before he lifts his chin, pointing towards the edge of the Forest. "There's a good path that way. Not too far in that you need to worry about whatever's lurking in there, but pleasant enough for a walk."

Harry nods, then waits for Malfoy to lead the way. He doesn't say anything as they walk, only puts his hands into his pockets and watches as the treeline grows nearer. Once they step into the shadowed overhang of the trees, he glances at Harry, then glances away again.

"Everything okay, Malfoy?" Harry asks, though he isn't sure he wants to know the answer. His anxiety grows as Malfoy continues to stay silent. "If this is about the competition…" Harry starts.

Malfoy looks over his shoulder at Harry, then sighs. "It is and it isn't."

"If I crossed a line last time…"

"No, no." Malfoy frowns, then kicks the toe of his shoe against the dirt path. "That was fine. I'm just not sure how we're going to finish it, as it were."

"What do you mean? You want to call it a draw?"

Malfoy looks at him with fire in his eyes. "I'm not giving up, Potter."

"Well, it certainly sounds like you are."

"Better get your ears checked. They must be as bad as your eyes." Malfoy steps close enough that Harry can make out the individual flecks of grey that make up his irises. They look like granite, and Malfoy's expression is just as hard. "Let's have it out, then," he says. "Last round, right now."

"Here?" Harry laughs. "Anyone could see us."

"Consider it motivation, then," Malfoy says, his hand running along the waistband of his joggers, the front already starting to tent.

Harry's mouth is dry when he says, "Fine. Let's go, then."

They both fumble for their joggers. Harry only pulls his low enough to get his prick out. He's never been a fan of running in boxers, and he knows the exact moment Malfoy realizes that Harry's been out here without pants this entire time. Cursing, Malfoy pushes his joggers to his knees and pulls his cock out from the slit in his boxer-briefs. They're black and tight around his thighs, and Harry's struck by the beauty of Malfoy's ruddied cock against all of that tight, inky black.

Harry spits into his palm, and Malfoy does the same, staring Harry down as he does it. They both wrap their fists around their pricks at the same time, and then they're off.

It's different than the other times. Something about the sunlight creeping through the trees, the dappled light playing on Malfoy's skin, the buzz of insects in the distance. Harry smells sweat and green earth, and he can't stop looking at Malfoy. Can't stop looking at his hand and his prick, his muscled arms, his pink tongue darting out to wet his lips, his grey eyes turned nearly black by the blown-wide expanse of his pupils.

"I haven't been able to stop thinking about it," Harry says softly, though his hand is rough on his prick. "The way you looked that night."

"Do you want to know what I did after?" Malfoy twists his wrist and hisses.

"After I left?"

"After you _ran_." Another vicious twist, another muffled curse. "After you left me to clean up your mess."

Harry's heart is thundering in his ears. His muscles clench. "What'd you do, Malfoy?"

"I rubbed your spunk into my skin. I got my hand nice and wet with it, and then I made myself come again."

"Fuck." Harry locks his knees, barely holding his orgasm back. "Whenever I get in the shower, I think of you. Even when I don't want to."

Malfoy chuckles, low and dark. "Playing dirty, Potter. I think I like it."

"I know you do."

They're standing so close that Harry can feel Malfoy's panted exhalations. Dizzy with desire, Harry bends in closer, close enough that his nose brushes the curve of Malfoy's shoulder. He rests in that almost-touch and breathes in the sweat-fresh scent of Malfoy.

"What do you want, Potter?" The words caress Harry's ear. "Tell me."

"I want—"

Malfoy puts his hand on Harry's waist, and that's what does it. Malfoy's fingers against Harry's sweaty skin. As pleasure rips through him, Harry's head falls forward into the curve of Malfoy's neck, and he curses into Draco's neck as Harry's release shakes every bone in his body.

When he opens his bleary eyes, Harry drags his gaze up to meet Malfoy's. His mouth is bitten red, plump and wet like a fresh strawberry, and Harry can't stop himself from leaning in to taste.

It punches through him as much as his orgasm had. Malfoy's mouth on his, the sudden intake of breath followed by that hand on his hip racing into his hair, pulling him closer. Harry groans and presses his body against Malfoy's. Even though Malfoy's other hand is trapped between them, neither of them seem to care. All they can do is kiss, each press forward and gentle retreat as overwhelming as the last.

Malfoy rips his mouth away, panting. "Tell me what you want, Potter."

"You." He didn't mean for the confession to come out, but now that it's hanging there between them, he doesn't want to take it back. "Damn it, Malfoy, I want you."

"Thank fuck." Malfoy drags Harry's mouth back to his, the kiss a bit too forceful to feel good. Harry's desperate for it anyway.

"Seems I won our little contest," Malfoy says when they break apart again. "I think I've earned a reward for that."

Harry laughs. "Oh? And what's that?"

"Well," Malfoy says as he runs his lips up Harry's neck, nipping at Harry's earlobe. "It seems like I've done an awful lot on my own." He tangles his fingers with Harry's, then brings Harry's hand to his still-hard prick. "I think you should lend me a hand."

Harry shivers and looks at his darker skin against Malfoy's blood-flushed cock. Almost as if in a haze, he wraps his fingers around it, feeling the heft and weight of it with an illicit thrill.

"You're so…" Harry squeezes and sighs. "Christ, you're so big."

"Should've guessed you'd be a size queen," Malfoy says, his head thrown back as Harry keeps running his fingers over Malfoy's cock. "Harder, Potter. You've seen me do it enough, you should know what I like."

Harry twists his wrist, just like Malfoy did, and laughs when Malfoy's entire body shivers. He does it again and again, loving the way that Malfoy can't stop his response.

"I'm close," he grits out against Harry's neck. "Ah, damn it, Potter, your hand…"

Harry doesn't know what drives him to the ground, but his knees are digging into the dirt before he realises it. Malfoy curses again, then buries his fingers in Harry's curls, forcing his face up.

"Look at you," he says. "Gods, just look at you."

Harry works his hand over Malfoy's cock once, twice, and then twists his wrist one last time. Grey eyes slamming shut, Malfoy gasps as he comes.

Semen lands hot and warm on Harry's face, across the lenses of his glasses in off-white smears. He opens his mouth, tastes it on his tongue, feels it on his lips. It's hot and bitter, and as Malfoy's shakes, Harry squeezes his grip tighter, dragging another spurt from Malfoy's body.

When Harry works Malfoy's cock again, Malfoy hisses and pulls away.

"It's too much," he says before gently petting Harry's head. "You're too much. Gods, you're a fucking mess, Potter."

Harry licks his lips and smiles as Malfoy groans. "Doesn't taste that bad," he says before putting his sticky fingers in his mouth and licking them clean. "I could get used to it."

Malfoy smiles, then casts a quick _Scourgify_ over Harry's face. His vision suddenly cleared, Harry swears that Malfoy's expression is… _fond_.

"You seem pretty happy for a loser," Malfoy says as he continues to pet Harry's hair.

Grinning, Harry leans into the caress. "I don't know, Malfoy. From here, I'd say I won."

**Author's Note:**

> If you were wondering if I could come up with more and more convoluted ways to fulfill these prompts, the answer is yes.


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